Dark Desert Highways
by Cerasi J
Summary: Welcome to the Hotel California—where a good night’s rest could cost you your life.
1. Part One

**Title:** Dark Desert Highways

**Author:** Cerasi J.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Archive:** FanFiction.Net, FanFiction Online, XFMU, The Vision, Addicted to Doggett, Gossamer, X-Files Virtual Season 10

**Website: **http://www.angelfire.com/journal2/fanfictiononline

**Category:** D/R UST/Case File

**Spoilers: **Space, John Doe, 4-D, Audrey Pauley, Existence 

**Feedback:** I live for it: CerasiJ@for-president.com

**Summary: **Welcome to the Hotel California—where a good night's rest could cost you your life.

**Disclaimer:** The song "Hotel California" belongs to the Eagles, John and Monica belong to Chris Carter, and the general idea of this story belongs to me.

--- 

**Sparks, Nevada**

June, 1977 

---

          "He's coming home!" Jill Evans cried triumphantly as she slammed down the phone in the hallway. "He's coming home _today_!" Jill's mother, Ann, walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, summoned by all her daughter's excited screaming, "What? James is coming for a visit?" Jill nodded excitedly, her loose blonde hair flying into her eyes. "Uh huh, he just called and said he was just now leaving, he should be here tonight if he drives fast enough!"

          Anna frowned at her daughter, "Do you _want_ him to get in an accident?"

          "Yes, I mean, no…" Jill was so excited she shook off her mother's question, "Oh, who cares?! He's coming home isn't he?! That's all that matters!"  James and Jill had been high school sweethearts, but they were forced to go their separate ways when Jill was accepted into the University of Nevada at Reno, a fifteen-mile drive from her house, and James was accepted into the University of Las Vegas.  Jill was planning to transfer to Las Vegas when she had enough credits from her current school.

          "I bet I know what this means," Jill's mother wryly as she turned and walked back into the kitchen.  "What?" Jill replied with growing anticipation, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. "You'll need a new outfit, won't you?" Her mother called over her shoulder.   

          Jill agreed and ran quickly to her small, basement bedroom to get her shoes and change her shirt.  She hopped around her bedroom on one foot, with one tennis shoe on her foot and her shirt halfway above her head. 

          Jill paused for a moment, long enough to finish stripping off her shirt and to finish tying both her shoes.  She rummaged around in her dresser for something that wasn't too dirty and full of holes.  She finally pulled out a red t-shirt that was two sizes too small for her.  But that was okay; it seemed to be the new fad nowadays.

          She peered into the mirror for a moment to straighten her long blonde hair.  Jill applied mascara, and a touch of black eyeliner, the black bringing out the crystal-clear blue of her eyes.  Using a large brush she dusted some face powder over her lightly freckled cheeks, grabbed her purse and wallet and ran upstairs.

---

**Highway 375**

**Nevada Desert**

**10:38 p.m.**

---

          The desert stretched out before him like an endless wasteland.  Blue-white bolts of heat lightning descended from the heavens and pummeled the harsh, white sands, silently, without mercy. Heat wafted through the air like tendrils of smoke from a fine cigar.

          Twenty-two year old James Campbell was oblivious to the exotic beauty of the lightning dancing across the desert, or the stars gleaming like spilled mercury in the inky sky.  The only thing he cared about was getting home to his girlfriend, who was probably pacing a hole in her bedroom floor by now.  And by the look of things, she was going to pace a hole that lead all the way to China.

          James angrily climbed out of his sunshine yellow, 1975 Plymouth Duster—and kicked a tire of the accursed machine.  He slammed the door as hard as he could, attempting to vent his fury on the door, instead of on something important.  Like the air-conditioning controls inside the car.

          He stood for a moment, his fists planted on his slim hips, glaring at the evil automobile.  Then he swore loud and long and damned the man who built the first car.  Mumbling curses that would have made an ex-convict blush, James crossed the ditch, broke off a fairly long branch from a sage brush rooted in the parched ground and stormed back to his car.

          He opened the little door that housed the gas tank and stuck the stick inside.  Impatiently, he waited and a moment later pulled the stick out again.  Clean and dry. Damn.  Out of gas.  

          James violently threw the stick into the middle of the highway, and let out another long stream of curses.  Out of gas! How could he be out of gas?! He just filled up not two hours ago outside of Las Vegas! How could the tank be empty already? 

          Angered beyond all belief, James popped the trunk and searched for a gas can.  His search, however, was in vain, since the only thing in his trunk was his army-surplus duffle bag.

          He slammed the trunk; another burst of anger welled from his feet and was expelled via his mouth in the form of the foulest of words. _Now what?_ James thought with a pang of helplessness, _Jill's waiting on me! I should have been there tonight! She'll be so disappointed…_

          Sighing and stifling another outburst, James raked his fingers through his military cropped wheat colored hair and stepped into the middle of the highway.  No traffic, no houses, no cities, nothing for miles and miles.  No one to bother him and no one to help him.

          A light breeze kicked up from the south and plastered James's sweaty white tank top to his spine, sending a shiver through him. He looked toward the sky, as if a gas station would fall from it to offer him fuel and perhaps an oil change.

          No such luck would befall James, however, so he decided to sit and wait until a passerby came along.

          He opened the driver's side door and plopped down in the seat to wait.  He waited ten minutes, then twenty; he beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel and waited another ten minutes.

          James leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing himself not to fall asleep.  When he opened his eyes he noticed a faint twinkling in the distance.

          _A car!_ He thought excitedly, _someone, finally!_ He opened the door, got out and stood by the road.  He waited and something twinkled again, but it wasn't a car, he realized with mild surprise.  _A town!_

           There was a town up there; that meant they _must_ have a gas station!  James walked to the trunk, opened it and pulled out his duffle bag, just in case.  He looked to the north and saw the light still twinkling merrily, beckoning to him.

          He rolled up the windows, locked the doors and started off in the direction of the light, his bag slung over his shoulder.

---

**Roscoe, Nevada**

**Forty-five minutes later**

---

          By the time James made it into town it was nearing one o'clock in the morning and everything was closed.  He hadn't seen one, single car since he left his own back on the road about five miles away from the town.

          James stood in the street and looked at the quiet town.  Off the main highway, several streets broke off and winded into other parts of town, houses lined the quiet streets and their porch lights glowed like torches in the wee hours of the morning.

          James hefted his bag onto his shoulder again and started into town. He walked for about two blocks before he realized everything must be closed at this time of night.  Shaking his head in frustration, he threw down his bag and sat hard on it, causing the air to be forced out of the bag and his clothes to flatten, so he was basically sitting on the street.

          He shifted his weight on the hard ground.  Great. The gas station was closed, it was one o'clock in the morning, his car was five miles down the road, he was dead tired and he wouldn't get to fall asleep with his arms around Jill tonight.  Now what would he do?

          James lifted his head from his hands, where it had fallen in despair.  He noticed a street sign to his right, California Street.  He scanned the street with his eyes and noticed an old house at the very end of the street.  It was nothing like the modern 1970's homes with nice, green trimmed lawns, and cheery porch lights.  It was an old, ugly moth colored Victorian style house that, probably at one time, was a grand house in its day.  But now it seemed abandoned and lonely, sitting in a trashy vacant lot.

          A light came on upstairs of the old house, and then another one and one downstairs until all the lights in the house shone brightly, casting long shadows into the street.

          _Maybe they have a spare gas can I could borrow,_ James thought as he pulled himself to his feet, hefted his bag again and trudged with renewed determination down California Street.  When he reached the crooked and broken gate of the old Victorian house, his steps faltered as he stared up at the woodpile somebody called home.  It seemed much taller than it did on the street corner a few blocks away.  Now it seemed like something from an old time Frankenstein movie.  The only thing the old house didn't have was a graveyard behind the house.

          This house was way too creepy for him, even if it was all lit up like a tree at Christmas time.  He turned on his heel, deciding that he'd go back to his car, catch a few hours of sleep, get some gas in the morning and be in Sparks by tomorrow night.  Jill would understand.

          James had only made it a few feet before he heard a voice call out, "Hello? Sonny? Can I help you?"  He whirled around and looked up at an elderly lady standing on the front porch of the old house.

          "Uh…" he started to say.  Had she seen him? He hadn't seen any faces in the windows… "Can I help you?" she asked again.  The old lady squinted at him through her blue framed bi-focals and shivered delicately in the cold Nevada night.  

          "Well ma'am…" James began, taking a step closer to the front gate, "My car ran out of gas, and I'm expected in Sparks tonight and I was wondering if you knew of any place where I could find a service station that's still open this late."

          Her hair shone like polished silver in the yellowed light that now bathed both of them in its warm glow.  Somehow the old house didn't look so creepy with this sweet old lady standing on the porch. "Oh!" She said, blinking behind her glasses and acting surprised. "You had your bag, I thought you were looking for a room!"  She pointed to a sign on the front lawn, a sign James had missed.  It was the same moth colored brown as the rest of the house, only with red lettering that read "Hotel California, 13 California Street, Roscoe Nevada".

          "Oh…" James mumbled, his brown eyes glued to the sign, "I didn't realize this was a hotel…" He shook off his weariness and looked at the woman standing on the porch in an old white nightgown, "I wasn't looking for a room… is there… I mean; do you have some gas in cans that you could possibly spare? Just so I can get my car started? I'd be more than happy to pay you back…" he trailed off uncertainly.

          She shook her head sadly, "No… I'm sorry; I don't own any motor vehicles, they're horribly noisy and I have very sensitive hearing! Oh but, you're so tired looking, why don't you come in and rest awhile?"  Behind her, the lights in the house seemed to brighten.  

          James began to back away again, "Um… no, no thank you, I gotta get going…" The old lady clasped her hands together and gave a chuckle, "But if you have no fuel, how do you expect to get anywhere? Come, come inside and I'll fix you something hot to drink and you can have a good night's rest before you start your journey in the morning."  

          The lights in the house throbbed brighter.

          She was right, James realized with sinking defeat and weariness, he wouldn't get very far if he didn't get some sleep soon.  "Well," he said, still uncertain, "How much are your rooms?"

           "Oh!" she exclaimed, "Don't worry about the price, sonny, you can worry about that in the morning, come on now, we have some nice rooms upstairs."

          Giving in to the sound of a cup of hot chocolate and a soft pillow, James opened the old gate and joined the old lady on the porch.  "Thank you for your kindness, ma'am, I appreciate it."  She held out her hand, "You may call me Annabelle Lee, and you are?" He shook her hand politely, "James Campbell, ma'am."

          "Nice to meet you, James, please, come in."  Annabelle stood aside and pointed out the front door to James.  He went inside and was bombarded with the scents of freshly baked bread, orange peels, mothballs, and that classic old lady smell.  He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear out all of the uncertainties. 

          "Do you have a phone?" he asked, thinking he could at least call Jill and let her know where he was.  "No," Annabelle replied cheerfully as she set about making a cup of hot chocolate for James, "No phone; can't stand the noisy things!"

          His hope dropped another notch as he accepted the steaming cup.  "Let me show you to your room." Annabelle lifted the hem of her nightgown as she climbed the stairs.  She pointed to a room on the right, "Here we are!" She opened the door, "Have a good night James, I'll be right down stairs if you need anything."

          James thanked her again, entered the room and shut the door.  He looked around the room, yellowed wall paper with some sort of flowers on it, a bed with no box spring, and a bathroom where the water ran a rusty brown instead of clear.  Yeah.  What a great place to stay.

          James set his hot chocolate on a stack of books used for a night stand, stripped off his shirt, pants, shoes and socks and crawled under the covers, ignoring the hot drink.  Before he threw his pants on the floor for the night, he reached into the left pocket and extracted a slender gold band with a small ruby in it.  He smiled and twirled the ring between his fingers, thinking the gold in the ring would match Jill's hair color.

Placing the ring back in the pocket of his pants, he tossed the dirty jeans to the floor and closed his eyes. He was too tired to get up and turn the light off, oh well, who cares? His eyes started to drift shut and he heard a loud creak.  He dismissed it and figured the house was probably caving in, as old as it was.  

          Another loud creak caused him to roll over on his right side.  Finally the snapping of wood, crunching of drywall and the eerie twisting of metal caused him to open his eyes.  And what he saw when he did made him sit up in bed and grope for his blue jeans.  The ceiling was caving in!  As he looked up in horror he realized the ceiling seemed to have grown two arms and was reaching down for him.  Out of sheer terror he screamed. 

          Blood sprayed across the yellowed flower wall paper and in her room downstairs Annabelle sat up in bed as she heard the sickening dull thump of a lifeless body falling to the floor.  Tears gathering in her eyes she placed a hand to her cheek, "Oh… my… and he was such a _nice_ boy…"

--- 

          When the sun rose above the town of Roscoe, Andy Martin was the first one to see it, since he lived the closest to the old house.  He shook his wife Maureen awake at the crack of dawn.  "Andy," she mumbled as she grabbed a handful of comforter and threw it over her head, "It's too damned early, leave me alone."

          Andy however, could only stare at the old house outside.  The old house was no longer a dusty moth colored brown.  The lawn was no longer dead and crabgrass no longer ruled and grew through the wooden planks of the front porch.

          The house was now a deep, sky blue with crisp, white gingerbread trim.  The lawn was green and lush and not a patch of crabgrass was in sight.  The sign out front was also the same deep sky blue as the house and in crisp, white letters the sign advertised "Hotel California, 13 California Street, Roscoe Nevada".

          "Maureen," Andy whispered, staring in horror at the beautiful, blue house, "It got another one."


	2. Part Two

**---**

**67 Bennett Ave.**

**Washington, DC**

**9:37 p.m., present day**

---

          A drop of Rudolph Red fell from the brush and landed on the white bathroom counter. "Shit," Monica Reyes mumbled, scrambling for a Kleenex to wipe the splotch of nail polish off the sink.  The drop was wiped up successfully without leaving any stains.  Monica wiggled her toes at herself, admiring the shiny, sparkly red polish on her nails.

          She leaned forward slightly to examine places she might have missed.  As she examined, she dipped the brush into the bottle to touch up a few places.  When Monica was done with that, she set about pulling her hair back into a slightly messy ponytail and slopping some sort of mud mask onto her face.  A mask, the package proclaimed, that "drew the impurities from your skin to leave it feeling fresh and clean."  What the heck, it was only a $1.99 at Target, who could pass up a deal like that?

          It wasn't until her nails had been painted, her hair washed and conditioned with professional strength products and her eyebrows had been plucked that she realized someone was pounding on the door.  Curious, she turned down the stereo, and walked to the front door. She was too short to see out the peephole, so she just opened the door.  The man on the other side looked up at her from a file folder he was reading and gave a slight jump in surprise.  Monica rolled her eyes and stood aside so he could come in, "Shut up, John."

          He chuckled, went inside and stripped off his leather jacket, tossing it over an armchair. "What happened Mon? You fall in a mud hole?"  Rolling her eyes again, she went back into the bathroom to wash the mud mask off her face.  John followed her and looked around the bathroom, "What the hell? Do you collect this stuff, Monica?" he asked as he surveyed the mess of various bottles of nail polish, hair treatments, make-up and other such things spread out on the bathroom floor and countertop. He suddenly looked concerned, "Hey… I'm not interrupting or anything am I? Do you have a date or something?"  

          Monica chuckled, as she wiped her face off with a green hand towel, "No, I'm just goofing off."  John's face relaxed as soon as he heard she didn't have a date.  "I didn't leave you waiting outside too long, did I?" Monica asked, continuing the conversation, "I couldn't hear you knocking, I was listening to the radio."

"No, you didn't…" John mumbled absently as he opened the lid to the portable CD player/boom box Monica had set by the sink. With a quick motion he extracted the CD and held it on his index finger so he could read the label. "No Doubt, Return of Saturn? You having a mid-life crisis or something, Monica? Red nail polish, No Doubt…? What's next? Purple hair?" 

He looked down at her red toenails as she yanked the clip out of her hair and ran a brush though it. "No, that was in college," she said.  John watched her brush her hair with great interest, still holding the CD.  She chuckled, "I'm just having a girl's night in, John and besides, I like No Doubt."  

          "Well, I'm an old fogy," he replied, placing the CD back into the player and glancing at the varying colors of eye shadow in a make-up kit next to her curling iron, "I still listen to Led Zeppelin." 

          "Nothing wrong with Zep," Monica agreed as she started to wind up the cord to her hair dryer.  John picked up the pot of eye shadow, which was a light lavender color, held it up to her and said, "You know, this color would look really good on you."  For a moment she just stared at him, then she blushed and turned to put the hair dryer away.  Finally she said, "They have rules about wild make-up colors at work John, you know that."  He pretended to be taken aback, "What's so wild about lavender?"

          Monica ignored him and continued to pick up her beauty products.  John shot another look at her red toenails, "What color are your fingernails?" he asked in a teasing tone.  "I was going to make them lime green," Monica replied wryly, "but I ran out of that color last week."  He painted an "aw, that's too bad" look on his face, "Too bad, I would have liked to have seen that."  

          John turned and walked toward the kitchen, "Mind if I grab a Pepsi?" he called over his shoulder to Monica who was just turning out the lights in the bathroom.  "Only if you get me one," she said, smiling.  John plopped down next to her and slung a leg over the armrest of the couch, handing her one of the soft drinks he held.  "What brings you here so late?" Monica asked, opening her soda and taking a sip. "Well, I was just down at the office, diggin' through some of Mulder's old files and I came across one that seemed pretty interesting, and I thought you might like it, so I brought it over."  John handed her a thick, manila file folder that she had seen him reading in the hallway.

          She glanced at him curiously, placed her drink on the coffee table and opened the file.  She read quietly for a moment and finally said, "John… this isn't an X-File."

          "Why isn't it?" he asked, absently flipping through a TV Guide.  "Because," Monica elaborated, "this is just a missing persons case… nothing spooky about that."  She looked down at the file and scanned it once more to make sure she hadn't missed anything.  

          "Yeah," John said, throwing down the TV Guide and tacking his full attention on her, "but all those people in that file disappeared the same way, they were all expected someplace, but never got there."

          "'1902, Margaret and Robert Ember missing, assumed deceased.  1927, Rose and Nathan Hayes missing, assumed deceased.  1952, Bobbi and Tommy Green missing, assumed deceased… 1977, James Campbell… missing… assumed deceased…'" Monica's reading faltered and trailed off.  "See a pattern here, Monica?" John asked, rising from his seat.

          "Yes… every twenty-five years… that means someone else would be dead already… this year, 2002. Serial killer?"  

          "No, too random for a serial killer, besides, he'd be dead by now if it was, the killings started almost a hundred years ago."

Monica's hazel eyes followed John as he walked to the window and looked out, "All the victims were last spotted on or near Highway 375 in Nevada, do you know what Highway 375 is?"  Monica shook her head no, amazed with John's sudden interest in an X-File case.  "It's the Extraterrestrial Highway, known for its UFO sightings." 

She quirked an eyebrow at John, "Extraterrestrials? I figured it would be a cold day in Hell before I ever heard John Doggett mention _that_ word."  He rolled his eyes, "Now don't go thinking that I said it was UFOs abducting these people or something, you hear me? Personally I think it's worth investigating… because if we can figure out what happened to these people, I think that will put a lot of families at ease… just… knowing…" John swallowed the sudden lump that rose in his throat.  "Besides," John hurried on, "God knows I could use a vacation, and I heard Vegas is nice this time of year."

Monica looked thoughtfully down at the file again.  John's voice brought her back to reality, "What do you say, Monica? Want to go waste some taxpayer dollars?"

---

**Las Vegas International Airport**

Four Nights Later 

**9:35 p.m.**

---

          Flight 252 out of Baltimore landed at approximately 1:32 a.m. east coast time.  Monica Reyes stumbled off the plane and into a flight attendant who was guarding the entrance to the plane.  "Sorry!" Monica said to the annoyed attendant. She fought to open her eyes just long enough to get in a rental car and to a hotel. 

          John emerged from the plane just as Monica was about to walk into a group of groggy looking Japanese tourists.  He reached out and snagged the back of her jacket and reeled her back towards him like a fisherman with a big catch, "Monica, I thought you and I had a talk about you sleepwalking all the time."            

"I still don't think this is an X-File," Monica mumbled grumpily in reply to his statement.  She fought to keep her eyes opened as she walked toward the rental car desk beside John.  "So what if it's not an X-File?" He asked, letting go of her jacket and sliding his arm casually around her shoulders, "You wanna hit the slots tonight or tomorrow night? Or how about one of those .99 cent buffets?" Monica tried to roll her eyes, but she was afraid they'd get stuck that way and she'd fall asleep walking around in the airport.  She chose to ignore him instead.  It was nearing 2 a.m. where they lived, how could John be so perky?  _He must have had some really strong coffee on the plane,_ she decided as she closed her eyes and let her head drop towards John's shoulder. "Hey," he said, giving her a shake, "Wake up, we're not there yet."

          "When _are_ we going to be there?" Monica demanded as she tried to avoid walking into a green planter with some sort of foliage attempting to grow in it. "Tomorrow afternoon, we'll get a hotel tonight, sleep in late, have breakfast and talk to the LVPD.  Okay?" Monica could see John in her peripheral vision; he was peering intently at her, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her approval. She nodded her agreement, shrugged and yawned at the same time.    

A question suddenly popped into her sleep-deprived brain, "How come you're so alert? Aren't you tired?"

"Beat," John said, looking over at his sleepy partner as he steered her away from a phone booth, "They gave us cookie dough ice cream on the plane, I ate it before I realized what it was. I can't eat the stuff, it makes me wired for some reason."

"I wish I had that luxury," Monica replied sleepily, as she slid her arm around John's strong shoulders and let herself be pulled along toward the rental car desk.  

---

**Room 506**

**Excalibur Casino and Hotel**

**11:59 a.m.**

---

          "Mornin' sunshine," a voice quipped as golden Nevada sunlight flooded the room and painted the walls with its brilliance.  Monica Reyes raised her head from the tangle of pillows and blankets on her bed.  "What do you _want_?" she asked in an annoyed tone, burying her face back into the soft cotton of the sheets.

          "What do _I _want? Hmm… loaded question, Monica."  John Doggett echoed from his position at the window that overlooked the Las Vegas Strip, his eyes roaming over the shape of the slender woman buried under the sheets and blankets and finally settling on the dark, silky hair that was spilled carelessly across the pillows. "Right now, I want lunch, that's what I want."  He strode over to her bed, grabbed an exposed ankle and gave a hard tug.  Monica screamed, suddenly awake and sprawled out on the floor at her partner's feet.  John grinned down at her, "It's noon Monica, time to get up."

          "SO?!" She yelled, snatching up a pillow and chucking it in the general direction of his head, "You told me last night at the airport we could sleep in!"  John ducked and the pillow hit the window with a muffled thump, "Yeah, I meant till like nine or something, not noon!"  He ducked another pillow.  "Yeah, well, it was your bright idea to take a late flight, so I blame you for my chronic fatigue."

          "Such big words," he joked as he offered a hand to help her up, "did you think that up all by yourself?"  She responded by crossing her arms over her chest and using the Death Glare on him.  "Okay, okay," John held up his hands in a surrendering gesture, "Sorry!"  Both were quiet for a moment, he looked down to study his Nikes when he noticed Monica's bare feet.  And her purple toenails.  

He quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, he shook his head, turned and walked toward the door, his sneakers thumping heavily on the faded carpet, "You want some coffee or something?"

          "A big cup," she agreed, crossing the room and stooping to pick up the pillow that hit the window, "extra sugar; not too much cream." 

          "Yes, your highness," John called over his shoulder as he left the room.

---

Twenty Minutes Later 

---

          "Thanks for all your help, sir, this will really speed up our investigation," Monica said through a plastered on smile as she shook Police Chief O'Donnell's hand.  "It's really no trouble," he said under his thick salt-and-pepper mustache, his eyes drifting to Monica's shirtfront. "We just never dreamed that these cases would ever be solved, and by the FBI! Why did the FBI take interest in this case anyway?"

          _Why did you bring me a totally useless piece of information that I already had?_ She wondered, still wearing a plastic smile and wishing John would get back soon. "I, uh, our division handles these types of cases, sir. And it just so happened that this file was on the top of the To Do List."           

"Oh," the fat, balding Chief moved a step closer to her, "yes, I spoke to your partner… you work on the X-Files?" 

          "Yes," she answered, taking an involuntary step backward, "we specialize in the paranormal. And, uh, unsolved, uh, mysteries. Well, you'd better get going, right? I mean, we both have a lot of work to get done… and you probably have a lot of crimes to investigate… you know, like in that TV show they film here…" Chief O'Donnell stared blankly at her for a moment, then said, "Yes… you're probably right… how long are you sticking around in Las Vegas? I could… show you the sights…"  

"Uh, not long, actually… I uh, have to get home to my husband, ah, um, John… a-and son… Luke…" Monica fiddled with one of the silver rings on her fingers, hoping the fat Chief would get the message.  "John…" The Chief stroked his chin thoughtfully, "that's your partner's name, right? I talked to him." 

"Oh. Ha, yeah, I guess it is, what a small world, huh? Well, I'd better get some work done, I've got a lot of phone calls to make, so, um, buh-bye!!" The fat Chief waddled toward the door, finally taking the hint.  Monica said her thank you's and politely walked the Chief to the door.  Creeped out, she shut the door firmly behind him, and locked the dead bolt.

She walked back to the small table where she had thrown the file the Chief had given her.  She opened it and snorted out loud.  It was the names of the current victims of this murderer, whoever he was.  Disgusted, she tore the piece of paper in half and threw it in the trash.  

Monica puttered about her hotel room for a moment, picking up the bedding that had slipped to the floor when John pulled her out of it.  She held the soft blanket in her hands for a moment, thinking about John's reaction to her red toenails and make-up the other night.  And the look on his face when he asked if she had a date.  

_What do _I_ want? Hmm… loaded question, Monica._

What _did _John want?  She let herself fantasize for a moment.  What if she and John _did_ go out on a date?  What would John Doggett even wear on a date? Blue jeans? And his Marines t-shirt? And that leather jacket?  Or would he wear a boring, charcoal gray FBI agent style suit?

Monica sighed longingly as she thought of her and John strolling through a park after work… no, no… John's not the "strolling" type.  Something a little more practical… at lunch, maybe… okay, lunch in the park, she liked the park idea.  And maybe they could be having some of those great hot dogs from that little stand on M Street… and maybe he would look at her in that funny way, like he wants to say something but he just can't.    

          Or maybe John would reach over and run his hand through her hair… yes, that sounded nice… or maybe he would just lean down and…

          Someone pounding on the door interrupted her pleasant thoughts.  For a moment Monica thought it might be the fat Chief again, so she dropped the blanket and snuck over to the door.  She stood on her tiptoes and peeked out at the visitor on the other side.

Monica unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open. John was standing in the hallway with a Starbucks cup in each hand and a Burger King bag between his teeth.  She grinned at him and he mumbled something unintelligible around the paper bag.  Monica reached out to take the bag from him, "What did you say?"

          "I said, 'hot coffee'," he informed her as he walked into her hotel room, "Hungry?" 

"Starving," she said as she followed him to a small table in the corner of the room.  John set the coffee on the table and stripped off his windbreaker.  Monica found herself examining the thin, white t-shirt he wore and the finely sculpted muscles beneath it.

John walked over to her bed and threw his coat down; Monica's eyes followed him. Well, his backside anyway.  He turned around to face her and caught her staring.  "What?" he asked defensively, slightly alarmed by her scrutiny.  Monica could feel blood rushing to her cheeks and sweat beading on her brow.  "Nothing," she stuttered awkwardly, "I thought you had a stain on your shirt."  He looked puzzled, but said nothing.

They spread out their sandwiches and coffee and sat down to eat.  Monica took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.  "John," she said, reaching for her coffee, "The police Chief from the LVPD was here."

"Oh yeah?" John asked around a mouthful of French fries.  "Yeah," Monica confirmed, "have you really talked to him before?"  John nodded his confirmation, "He's an okay guy, I wouldn't have promoted him to Chief."  Monica snorted and hid a chuckle.  "I agree; he was kind of creeping me out."

"Why?" John asked, looking at her over the rim of his coffee cup.  "Well… it's just… he kept… you know, like trying to get me to go out with him or something."  John grinned at her and placed his cup back on the table, "Not that I can blame him, you're pretty-…" He blinked with startled realization at what he had almost just said.  She raised her eyebrows at him, waiting to him to continue.   

Instead, John sat back in his chair, his hands circled around his Starbucks cup, "Uh…" he looked down at the shiny, black surface of the table and fell silent.  Monica rested her elbows on the table and nudged his sneaker with her bare foot.  "C'mon," she coaxed, a slight smile teasing her lips, "spit it out."

John didn't want to look up at her, but somehow he managed to pry his eyes from the surface of the table to meet her bright green ones.  She continued to watch him questioningly.  Finally he sighed heavily and forced himself to speak,  "Cute. You're pretty cute."  Monica chuckled and shook her head, looking down at her Whopper Jr.  

"Cute, huh? And when did you make this discovery?"  He said nothing, just took a bite of his sandwich and watched her with bright eyes.  John swallowed and both of them just looked at each other for a moment, not breaking eye contact.  Without breaking that contact, John leaned slightly closer to Monica, not quite encroaching on her personal space.

Monica didn't try to move, she knew what was coming.  Ever so slowly John leaned toward her, giving her plenty of time to move away if she chose to do so.  Unable to resist the urge, she reached out and laid a hand on his cheek.  His lips brushed softly against hers.  Monica was about to lean forward to deepen the kiss when her cell phone rang.  She jumped, startled by the unwanted interruption.  

John sprang up out of his seat like a frog and gaped at her for a moment; as if he couldn't quite comprehend everything that had just happened.  With crashing hopes of ever going on a date, or even kissing John for that matter, Monica sighed and pushed a button on the evil piece of technology, "Monica Reyes." 

John started toward the door, "Um, I just remembered, I uh, gotta check on something…" She watched him leave with a sinking heart, the door closed and someone shouted, "Agent Reyes? AGENT REYES, ARE YOU THERE???"  

She looked at the phone in her hand and put it against her ear in a sad manner, "Yes, I'm here…"

---


	3. Part Three

---

**Outside of Las Vegas**

**7:23 p.m.**

---

          "God, this is so boring, why didn't I bring a crossword puzzle or something?" Monica complained as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat and placed her feet on the dashboard.  "Why do we have to _drive_, anyway? Why couldn't we fly? You know, waste some tax payer dollars," Monica had been considerably irritable since her and John's near kiss earlier that day.  

          "Because, Monica," John had also been considerably irritable, "all the flights were booked already, you know yourself how impossible it is to get a decent flight on last minute's notice."  She grumbled something at stared out the window at the parched desert.  "Well, why couldn't she fly down to us?"  "She" meaning Jill Evans, who's last name was now Smith.  Jill Evans had heard about the investigation from a friend of hers who worked in the LVPD and had volunteered to speak to the FBI.  

          "Monica, be quiet, will you? You're giving me a headache." 

"We should probably get gas soon," Monica noted, ignoring John and continuing to stare out the window.  "Yeah, yeah, don't be a front-seat driver, I'll take care of it."

Monica rolled her eyes.  She reached into the glove box, pulled out her portable CD player, and plopped the headphones on her ears.  She settled back in her seat, content with listening to the Beastie Boys and watching John glare at the road through the windshield. 

---

Two hours later 

---

          "I told you," Monica gloated at him from her position on the hood of their rented Ford Taurus, "I told you _two hours_ ago to stop and get gas, but did 'ya listen? Hell no."

          "Be _quiet_, Monica," John growled from where he rummaged in the trunk.  

"I don't have to be quiet," Monica quipped, from her perch on the hood.  She flipped a book light clipped to her Game Boy on and started up a game of Tetris, "I told you to get gas and you just wouldn't listen.  This is what you get, you know, for pulling me out of bed this morning."  _And for not kissing me,_ she added to herself.

          John slammed the trunk where he was searching for a gas can.  He crossed the ditch and broke a branch off a sagebrush; he walked back to the car, passing in front of the hood where Monica sat.  "We can't be out of gas, the thing said we had 300 miles to empty."

          "That was in Las Vegas when it said that and you know what? It's empty," Monica replied, not looking up from her game.  John mumbled something in reply, opened the gas tank and stuck the stick inside.

          Monica suddenly looked up and instead of seeing the silver paint of the car she was sitting on, she saw bright yellow instead.  Instead of seeing her black cotton skirt, she saw a dirty pair of blue jeans.  Instead of seeing John she saw a dark, desert highway that stretched out forever.

          She gasped, and saw a young man with cropped wheat colored hair and chocolate brown eyes swear and throw a stick violently into the middle of the highway.  Her eyes followed the dotted white line in the middle of the road and she noticed a sign.  A sign that had a bulbous head and large black eyes, the sign read, "Extraterrestrial Highway 375, North."

          "Monica? MONICA?" Her head snapped up and she saw John standing there instead of a young, angry man.  He peered down at her, worry etching fine lines around his eyes, "Monica… you okay?"  She rubbed her left temple furiously, "Yeah… ever get that creepy de'ja vu feeling?"

          "Sometimes," he said slowly, "you looked like you saw a ghost for a minute there."

          "Yeah…" she shut off her Game Boy and the light attached to it, "Let's, uh, call Triple A or something, okay? This is a rental car, they've got to have some sort of insurance plan or something."

          "That's a good idea," John agreed as she pulled her cell phone from her skirt pocket and dialed the number.  The phone beeped at her and flashed, "Roaming".  Enraged, she threw the phone into the ditch, "Stupid phone plans, STUPID QWEST!"

          "Whoa, hey, calm down Monica," he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, "We'll get there, don't worry, someone has _got _to come along sooner or later." Monica nodded reluctantly, slid off the hood of the car and picked her cell phone up out of the ditch.  She and John got back in the car.  

          Slowly the heat began to fade away from the night, leaving Monica shivering and cold in her thin skirt and black tank top.  John finally glanced her way after about the fifth shiver, "Cold?"

          "Very," she replied through chattering teeth, wishing there was enough gas left in the car to run the heater. "Do you have a jacket or something in your bag? I'll get it for you," John offered.  "No," Monica shook her head and rubbed her arms, "I didn't bring a jacket, I thought Nevada was pretty warm, I didn't think I'd get stuck on a highway someplace in the middle of the night."

          John chuckled and shrugged off his leather jacket, "Here, you can have this, I'm hot."

          "No, that's okay, you keep-…" Before Monica could protest further, John had  leaned over and pulled the warm jacket around her shoulders.  She smiled wanly at him, "Thank you."

          "No problem." He sat back in his seat and watched the highway expectantly.  After two games of Tetris, two games of Mario Brothers and Led Zeppelin I and IV, John was starting to shiver himself.  Monica noticed and slid the jacket off her shoulders, the cold immediately latching onto her bare skin.  She ignored it and said, "Here, you can have it back, I'm warmer now."

          "Keep it," John ordered sternly, his eyes closed as he leaned back against the seat, "you'll be cold again in five minutes."  Monica let out an annoyed sigh and watched her breath be expelled in steaming clouds of silver. After about five minutes she got tired of Spyro and decided to watch John start to fall asleep, then shiver and jerk himself awake.  If it wasn't freezing cold and nearly midnight she would have laughed.  Monica was also pretty sure John didn't have another jacket and the dropping desert temperature could be dangerous at night.  

So she did what any smart woman would do in her situation.  She pushed up the console between the two seats, scooted over and wrapped her arms around John to keep him warm.  His eyes popped open in surprise.  He looked down at her questioningly, so she explained, "The best way to keep warm is to share body heat, and I don't think it would be fair if you froze to death because you gave me your jacket."  
          "Huh," John said, as if he had just learned that fact for the first time.  Nevertheless, he placed his arms around Monica and hugged her tightly to his chest.  She sighed contently and snuggled closer to him, beginning to feel a bit sleepy.  She closed her eyes and let her head fall to the middle of John's chest.

John rested his cheek on the top of her head and listened to her breathing slowly start to even out.  He started to drift off himself when he noticed lights in the distance.  He raised his head, still keeping protective arms around Monica.  A car? No, too bright to be a car… a semi truck maybe?  No… the light wasn't moving.  _A town!_  "Monica," he shook her arm, "Monica, wake up, there's a town, look!"  She groggily raised her head, her fine hair sticking to her cheeks and lips, "A what?"

"A town, c'mon!" He opened the door and got out, leaving Monica sitting on the seat by herself and wondering.  Sleepily, she slipped on her shoes and got out of the car, where John was grabbing their bags out of the trunk.  

"We'll just get a hotel or something if they have one, okay?"  

"Sounds good to me," Monica replied, thinking how wonderful a hot bath and a cup of coffee sounded.  They locked the rental car and started to trudge off in the direction of the light.  About a mile away from their car Monica noticed John had her bag slung over his shoulder, "I'll take that," she pointed at her bag.

"Nah, that's okay, I've got it," John said, smiling politely at her.  "Are you sure?" She started to protest, but she looked up and noticed a sign that made her stop in her tracks.  "John…" she pointed up to it with a mixture of awe and horror.  "What?" he asked, confused.  He backtracked to the sign she was looking at and was almost taken aback himself.  "Extraterrestrial Highway 375, North," Monica read aloud, staring at the seemingly huge bulbous green head and inky black eyes as large as dinner plates.

"They should phone home and stay home," John mumbled as he started the long walk down that dark desert highway. 

---  
**Roscoe, Nevada**

**1:27 a.m.**

---

"Closed…" John said with a certain amount of disgust, "everything is freaking _closed_!"  Monica barely heard him; she was about ten feet behind him, nearly falling asleep.  John, however, didn't seem to care, he was livid about the whole Its-one 'o clock-in-the-morning-why-isn't-anything-open? deal.

          Monica finally caught up with John, "Is there a motel?"  He shook his head, "I don't know, let's take a look."  He took her hand and together they walked toward what would be the business district of the town.  There was a hardware store, a shabby video store, a small market, a gas station and numerous houses.  

          They stopped on the corner and stood under a streetlight.  "God," Monica whispered, almost afraid to raise her voice, "this place is so clean you could build computer chips on the street."

          "Yeah," John agreed, "this is kinda creepy."  Monica looked up at the street sign, "California Street," she said, "There must be one of those in every town."

          "Probably."  John set their bags down and leaned against the light pole.  "Now what?"  

          Monica shook her head and was startled when she saw the same young man with those handsome brown eyes sitting on a duffle bag under that very same streetlight.  She looked to the west and noticed an old house with several lights on.

          "Monica?"  She shook her head to clear away the strange vision, "Yeah?"

          "You okay?" John still stood against the light pole.  She nodded, "I'm just tired."  She looked west on California Street and saw that same old house at the very end of the cul-de-sac.  "John," she found herself saying, "Look…" She pointed up at the old house and they both watched as one light came on upstairs followed by another, and another until finally the whole house was lit up.  John took a few steps away from the light pole and watched in awe.  "Mon… what's with that house?"

          "I don't know…" Whatever it was, something inside her warned her not to go near it.  "Hey," John said brightly, as if a light bulb had kicked on above his head, "maybe they own the gas station or something!"

          "John, I don't think-…"

          "C'mon, at least maybe they know where a motel is."  His cold fingers wrapped gently around her wrist and pulled, "It can't be that bad, Monica, it's not like there could be vampires or something."

          Frowning, she picked up her bag and let herself be pulled down the street.  Little did she know; this would be the last night she would be spending anywhere.


	4. Part Four

          "I have a bad feeling about this," Monica whispered as they came to a halt at the broken and battered front gate of the old house at the end of California Street. "Yeah…" John agreed, looking up at the ugly once blue looking house, "maybe we should go back to the car…" Monica nodded, enjoying the image of them cuddling again.  She shook her head to clear it, "Yeah, c'mon, let's go, this place is giving me the creeps."

          She took John's hand—more for comfort than anything else—and they started off down the sidewalk.  "Excuse me?" a voice called from behind them, "Can I help you?"  Both of them spun around, Monica's skirt swatting at her legs.  They exchanged glances and were stunned into silence.  

          An elderly woman stood on the front porch, shivering in her white, cotton nightgown.  "Can I help you?" she asked again, smiling warmly at them.  Red warning signs flashed in Monica's sleep deprived brain, causing her to back up a few steps and running into John, whose arm instinctively snaked around her waist protectively.

          John cleared his throat, still holding onto Monica, as if the old woman would

latch onto her neck and suck her blood.  "Uh, well, I'm Special Agent John Doggett with the FBI, this is Special Agent Reyes," John let go of Monica, realizing if he acted like a protective boyfriend toward his partner it could look bad for their case, "and, uh, our car broke down a few miles down the road, and we were wondering if we could use a phone."

          Monica rolled her eyes at the lame excuse, if they had wanted a phone-… wait a minute! A pay phone! Hope coursed through her veins at the sudden thought.  "A phone?" the old lady echoed, peering at them through her bi-focals, "Oh, no, we have no phones here."

          "What about a pay phone?" Monica asked hopefully.  "No, any phones are against the law here," the old lady replied.  Monica and John exchanged bewildered glances.  "Against the law to have _phones_?" John repeated with a certain amount of disbelief mixed with sarcasm.  "Yes," the old lady replied with a smile.  "Well," Monica said quietly to John, "it's sort of plausible, in Carmel California it's against the law to have a doorbell." John looked down at her as if she had finally gone nuts.  

          "Did you need a room for the night?" The old lady asked, breaking up the moment of weirdness between John and Monica.  "A room?" Monica asked, pushing her bangs away from her eyes.

          The old lady nodded and pointed to a sign in the crabgrass infested front yard.  It was the same chipped and faded color blue as the rest of the house, only with white lettering that read "Hotel California, 13 California Street, Roscoe Nevada".

          "Hotel California?" Monica asked, amused.  "You mean like the song?"  The old woman blinked as she moved a step closer to the front door of the house, "What song?"

          It was Monica's turn to blink as she suddenly realized that the lyrics of one of her favorite songs seemed to almost fit into the way this case was going.  John's words from a few nights ago echoed in her ears, _"All the victims were last spotted on or near Highway 375…"_

          _On a dark desert highway_

_Cool wind in my hair_

_Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air_

_Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light_

_My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim_

_I had to stop for the night_

          The rest of the song eluded her.  Monica tried to suppress a shudder, but couldn't and the old lady noticed.  "Oh, my, but you're cold, come inside and warm up a bit, we have nice rooms where you can stay for the night." 

          "Um, no… that's okay," Monica said, suddenly deciding this creepy town might have been the last place any of those victims saw. She grabbed John's arm in desperation, "We really have to get going…"

          "Oh," the old lady said in a grandmotherly sort of way, "but if you are having car problems how are you supposed to get anywhere?"  Again, instead of seeing what she really should have been seeing, Monica saw the same young man standing at this very gate, which was then painted an ugly brown color, she saw the young man open the gate and climb onto the porch, _"Thank you for your kindness, ma'am, I appreciate it."  She held out her hand, "You may call me Annabelle Lee, and you are?" He shook her hand politely, "James Campbell, ma'am."_

          James… it was their last victim she saw! Monica still didn't want to stay in this horrible place, where at least seven people might have been murdered.  John, however, couldn't seem the pass up the deal.

          "How much are your rooms?" he asked.  

_There she stood in the doorway_

_I heard the mission bell_

_And I was thinkin' to myself _

_This could be heaven or this could be hell_

Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way 

_There were voices down the corridor,_

_Thought I heard them say..._

          "Oh, don't worry about the price, sonny, you and Ms. Reyes have a nice rest and we'll talk prices in the morning," Annabelle Lee replied.  John glanced over at Monica, waiting for her approval. She figured the best way to look for clues would be on the inside of the house. Monica shrugged her response. Whether John knew it or not, Monica now considered this house and this old lady as one of their prime suspects.

          John opened the gate and he and Monica walked up the front steps to the porch, the old lady smiled at them, "I'm Annabelle Lee, the owner."  John shook her hand, Monica followed suit.  As they crossed the foyer another verse of "Hotel California" came forward from the many hazy thoughts in Monica's brain.

_Welcome to the Hotel California_

_Such a lovely place_

_Such a lovely face_

Plenty of room at the Hotel California 

_Any time of year, (any time of year) you can find it here_

          She could hear John and Annabelle speaking pleasantly, but she tuned it out as she walked casually around the living room.  Monica kept her eyes glued to the walls, no television, no electric plugs, but it had electric lights... no phone jacks… nothing to connect you to the outside world.  She glanced over at Annabelle Lee in the kitchen, who was making John a cup of coffee.  Something was just not right about this place… this old woman… this house… Monica's sudden visions… none of it made any sense whatsoever.  

          She stood in the middle of the living room, mulling over all the clues and trying to connect the pieces of the puzzle.  All of the victims had last been spotted on Highway 375, and according to Rand McNally's 2002 USA road map, Roscoe Nevada didn't exist.

          What about the town itself? Out here in the middle of nowhere, like someone came along, planted a seed and BOOM, a town grew.  But with no phones? How could a whole town—even a small one—survive without any sort of communication device?

          Monica had used the example of Carmel California, but Carmel was a rich, upscale yuppie sort of neighborhood, which had probably been around a lot longer than Roscoe had.  

          "Monica?" She looked up as John entered the room, "ready for bed?"  Annabelle Lee walked in behind him; "I'll show you to your rooms, they're right upstairs."  John and Monica followed silently.  Anxiety and a sense of terror grew over Monica as she climbed the stairs.  Don't be stupid, she chided herself, you're just tired, there is no way in hell this sweet little old lady could be a cold blooded killer.  It defies all logic.  

          "Here you are!" Chimed Annabelle in her stereotypical TV Grandma voice, "Have a good rest, I'll be downstairs if you need anything."  John thanked her; Monica pretended to be too tired to bother.  Their rooms were side by side; John went into the one on the left, "Night, Mon," he yawned over his shoulder as he shut the door.

          Monica was left standing in the hallway.  The lights went out downstairs and she suddenly felt the urge to whimper and run after John.  She shook her head, however, and decided not to sleep. Yes, that would be the key, she might be cranky in the morning, but it beat being dead.

          She went into the door on the right, flipped the light on and felt like she was being warped into a bad Ewan McGregor flick.  She looked around the room, yellowed wall paper with now brownish-gray Forget-Me-Nots on it, a bed with no box spring, dirty avocado green shag carpet… Monica didn't even want to _think_ about what the bathroom looked like…  

          She set her bag on the floor near the bed and unzipped it.  Pulling out an oversized Aerosmith-In-Concert t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants.  She changed quickly, sat down on what was supposed to be the bed and surveyed the room.  

          _Her mind is Tiffany-twisted; she's got the Mercedes-Bends_

_She's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends_

_How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat_

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget 

          An old dresser stood off to one corner of the room, on top of it was a cracked and dirty mirror, on what would be the south side of the house was the door to a private bath, but it probably hadn't been cleaned in a 'coons age. 

          Monica hugged her knees to her chest, leaving the lights on.  It was too creepy to sleep in the dark.  Or stay awake for that matter.  She thought of John in the room next to hers and wondered if he settle right down into bed or if he was just lying there wide awake like she was.  She would bet her FBI badge that he didn't think anything of it and was sound asleep. Pushing all thoughts of John aside, she tried once again to connect all the puzzle pieces of the case.  Nothing fit, nothing was right… she felt as if she had to cut the puzzle pieces to get them fit together to form this case.

          Ever since John brought her the file folder at her apartment she thought this case was bogus.  Not a word of it made sense! Like when she was accused of murdering John, when that wasn't really the case at all.

          The lights in the room throbbed brightly, then flickered.  Monica slumped a little bit, her head retracting toward her shoulders, as if she expected the ceiling to fall.  The lights flickered again and a frightened whimper slipped from her lips.  She shook her head, attempting to shake the sleep and fear away.

          She jumped to her feet and paced about the room, trying to clear her mind.  She decided she needed something to do, so she inched over to the old dressed, which, at one time was probably oak.  But now it was dusty and the finish was peeling off.  She decided to start at the bottom drawer, just to be different.  She knelt, her fingers resting on the rusted handles.  She closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath, trying to convince herself that she was just over reacting. 

          Monica gave the draw a sharp tug.  It didn't budge.  Curious, she opened her eyes and pulled again.  The draw popped open and inside looked like her dress-up trunk when she was five years old.  There was an antique white colored dress, which looked like something from the movie _Titanic. _There were also some articles of men's clothing, which looked as if it had come from the same era.

          Confused, she closed the drawer and pulled open the next one up.  Another dress and a set of men's clothes.  This set from the Roaring '20s.  Third drawer out of five.  Another set of men's and women's clothes.  This time… from the fifties.  Monica slammed the drawer shut, afraid to open the next one, but knowing she had to.  

          Forth drawer.  She gave a tug, it was stuck.  Another hard tug pulled the drawer right out of the dresser and sent her flying backwards, toward the bed.  She cried out as the contents were scattered across the room.

          She stood up and looked on in horror, the drawer still in her hand.  A white tank top and dirty blue jeans… and a wallet.  With shaking fingers she reached toward the wallet.  She couldn't remember being more scared in her entire life.  Not when she got in that near fatal car accident… not when John was shot and she had to pull the plug, not even when Scully gave birth to William with all those alien onlookers.  

          The faded brown leather was soft under her fingers, she quietly unfolded it.  Monica's breathing became quicker as she looked through the contents of the wallet.  A student ID… a Social Security card… five hundred dollars in cash… and a driver's license.  

          She pulled the plastic ID card from its holder and stared down in horror.  James Thomas Campbell's picture smiled up at her from its permanent place on the flimsy card.  Monica choked on the horror that welled up from the tips of her toes.  Throwing the ID and wallet to the floor she ran to the dresser and yanked on the fifth and final drawer.  Empty. 

_          So I called up the Captain, "Please bring me my wine."_

_He said, "We haven't had that spirit here since 1969."_

And still those voices are callin' from far away 

_Wake you up in the middle of the night_

_Just to hear them say...  _

Margaret and Robert Ember, 1902. Rose and Nathan Hayes, 1927.  Bobbi and Tommy Green, 1952. James Campbell, 1977. John Jay Doggett and Monica Juiletta Reyes… 2002.  Monica realized this fact just as the lights flickered for the final time before they went out.

She stifled a scream and fumbled to put the drawer back in place.  Under her breath she rattled off a quick prayer she hadn't said in years.  She scampered across the room; the yellowed moon light and quick flashes of heat lightning her only guide.  She began to pile James's things back into the drawer; tears of fear began to stream down her cheeks.  She fumbled with the drawer, trying to slide it back into its proper spot.

The sharp grinding of metal, the crumbling of drywall and the snapping of wood made her stop in her tracks.  Monica started crying openly as she dropped the drawer and bolted for the door.  She grabbed for the handle, but the door seemed to leap backwards.  

_Welcome to the Hotel California_

_Such a lovely place_

_Such a lovely face_

_They livin' it up at the Hotel California_

_What a nice surprise, (what a nice surprise), bring your alibis_

"Help me…" a voice moaned from the floor near the bed, Monica spared a sharp look in that direction, but saw no one.  "LET ME OUT!" She screamed as she took another swipe toward the door handle.  

"Help me please!"  On the space next to the door—where the light switch ought to have been—a face began to materialize.  "Help me!" it pleaded as it took shape.  The shape of James Campbell.  He looked like the classic _Star Wars_ Han Solo frozen in carbinite, suspended in the ancient plaster of the wall.  Facial features could not be made out, only the shape of the proud, square jaw and the military haircut.  A plastered hand reached out toward her, "Please… you gotta help me…"

Monica's eyes went wide and she screamed bloody murder. "JOHN!! JOHN!!" She leaped at the door handle again and finally caught it; she swung the door open, preparing to leave the pleading body of James Campbell behind, only to come face to face with a brick wall.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE!"        Commanded a voice from behind her.  Monica did an about face and stood nose to nose with Annabelle Lee.  The old woman's hair streamed out behind her, blown about by some unseen force.  Thunder rolled and lightning flashed across the dark desert.

"I INVITED YOU INTO MY HOUSE AND YOU HAD TO RUIN IT ALL!" Annabelle's voice was amplified by a thousand and was as deep as the Atlantic Ocean.  Monica turned back toward the door, screaming for John.  A woman's face on the far side of the room appeared in the wall, followed by a man… and another set of faces and another set.  All of them moaning and struggling to get free of the walls, the first woman called out to Monica, "Please! Help us! Free us!"

Annabelle Lee's white night gown flowed behind her as if she was standing amidst the ends of a hurricane.  "THEY ALL WANTED TO BURN ME FOR WHO AM I!" Annabelle roared, "I PREVAILED! I WILL LIVE FOREVER, PERSERVED FOR ALL ETERNITY!"  Annabelle started towards Monica with outstretched hands, as if she meant to choke the younger woman.

Monica ducked her grasp and ran for the gun that was in her suitcase.  Monica's finger closed about the trigger and she fired at Annabelle, her hands were shaking violently and the shots went wild and struck the wall, blowing away a large chunk of plaster that made up James's face.

Monica fired shot after shot at Annabelle, but the bullets passed right through and struck the wall over and over until there was almost nothing left.  One by one the wall zombies broke free from their plaster prison and shuffled toward Monica.  She was pinned against the bed.  "ALL SHALL FEAR ME AND DISPARE!" Annabelle Lee proclaimed.

Her gun empty, she knew she had one shot at this. She punched one wall zombie in the face and leaped over another one.  She had reached the dresser, lightning reflected in the mirror.  She pulled out the empty drawer, "DISPARE THIS!" Monica screamed back as she chucked the wooden box at Annabelle's head.  This threw her off for a moment as Annabelle caught the drawer.

Monica bolted for the door and threw it open. This time no wall stood in the way, instead John stood there shirtless, his chest heaving and his eyes alive with fear. He took one look into Monica's room, swore, grabbed her arm and together they bolted down the stairs.  Frantically, Monica glanced behind her.  A female wall zombie had escaped from the room and was attempting to descend the stairs.

"John!" Monica laid a hand on the bare skin of his back and pushed him to go faster down the long stairwell, "Hurry!"  He glanced back too, "What is _with_ this place?" He demanded as he ran.

The wall zombie's legs would not cooperate with its brain; it took a wrong step and tumbled down the stairs, crashing into Monica just as she reached the bottom of the stairs.  The zombie's foot caught her just right; causing Monica's left knee to buckle and she tumbled to the ground.  

John skidded to a halt at the absence of Monica's hand.  The zombie had landed on top of her and she was struggling to get free.  Over and over the zombie pleaded for help, all the while it grabbed at Monica's clothes, ripping a piece of cloth away from her shoulder and leaving a trail of blood.

John ran back towards her and pulled her away from the zombie and hauled her to her feet.  "C'mon!" Monica ran after John, her shoulder throbbing with pain.  The house was completely dark, making it hard to navigate to the front door.

When they finally reached the front door, Monica exhaled with relief.  John swung opened the door and shoved her outside before him.  She ran down the path with renewed hope, but was stopped in her tracks once again by Annabelle Lee, who suddenly appeared on the weedy path, close to the gate.

Monica slid to a stop, the broken stones of the old path cutting her bare feet.  John, who was at a dead run, collided into her, sending her sprawling forward at the old witch's feet.

_Mirrors on the ceiling_

_The pink champagne on ice_

_She said, "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."_

_And in the master's chambers_

_They gathered for the feast_

They stab it with their steely knifes 

_But they just can't kill the beast_

John grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her to her feet.  Now, Annabelle was no longer an evil looking old woman, she was back to her Grandma persona.  "Going somewhere?" she asking with a sickeningly sweet smile.  John pushed Monica behind him, since she had no gun.

"Yeah," John agreed, leveling his gun at her and steadying it with his left hand, "Away from you."

"Oh," she said, still wearing her faux smile, "I can't let you go anywhere, you haven't paid your bill yet."  

"We'll send you a check!" Monica yelled as she sprang forward and shoved the old woman.  Monica had meant to shove her away from the gate so she and John could escape without shooting at her. But the old woman stumbled and fell over the gate, and on to the sidewalk. 

"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!!!" She screamed. Monica and John watched in horror as the old woman began to fade ever so slowly.  Then, with a sudden burst of black light, she disappeared and all that was left was a pile of black dust.

John and Monica stared at the pile of dust as a desert wind kicked up and slowly blew the grains until there was nothing left.  Behind them, the house seemed to moan.  One part of the roof collapsed and a wall followed it.  John shoved Monica out the gate and they ran to the street corner where they had first seen the house.

They both fell to the ground, chests heaving.  "What… the hell… was that?" John asked through gasps as he leaned against the light pole.  "I don't know," Monica replied, looking down the street at the house that was caving in on itself.

"I… found James Campbell," Monica said from the other side of the light pole, looking over at him.  

"You did?"

"Yeah… he was dead, along with all the others."

"I figured."

"Annabelle Lee was a witch, I think." Monica tried to ignore the old house down the street, she scooted over so she sat in front of John, "she drew energy from the spirits her house consumed."

John sat there panting, watching his partner like she was crazy.  "The house kept her alive, as long as she didn't leave the perimeter… and when she did… the spell was broken."  He just shook his head, "All I know is you and I had some killer drywall mummies chasing us, how am I s'posed to explain _that_ to Skinner?"

"I don't know," Monica said.  "Did you get hurt at all?"

John shook his head, "Let me see your shoulder, did it cut you?"  She nodded and turned around.  He ran his fingers along the cut on her shoulder, not too deep just enough to bleed and hurt.  "You'll be okay," he said, picking up a scrap of severed t-shirt and pressing it to the wound.

Monica suppressed an involuntary shiver, "They… kept calling to me… and oh, it was creepy."  He patted her on the back, "It's over now."  She nodded, turned around and locked eyes with him, "Let's go home."

They stood up, took each other's hands and started on the long journey back toward the highway, and neither of them looked back.

_Last thing I remember_

_I was, running for the door_

_I had to find the passage back to the place I was before_

_"Relax," said the night man, "We are programmed to receive._

You can check out any time you like 

_But you can never leave."_

Behind them, the town of Roscoe, Nevada shimmered and faded out of existence.

The End.

Send all questions, comments and hate mail to: CerasiJ@for-president.com


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